Technicolor
by doctorwazlib
Summary: The life of Teddy Lupin has never been simple, but with Victoire it had always seemed effortless. Colorful. But when she leaves it's all black, black, black.
1. White

**a/n:** Just a little thing I'm working on in between chapters of some other projects. The idea hit me while I was riding the train and became fascinated with the colors of the rail lights. New style. Please leave a review to let me know if it interests you! Much love.

**disclaimer:** Teddy would like to say that I do not own Harry Potter, and if I made any money off of this story it would dishonor his parents memories. We would not want that, would we?

White is purity.

Her hair was white when she was born. A soft off-white that matched the color of her ever delicate skin - pink - cheeks and blotches of a newborn still evident on that July day. A summer child with summer hair and blue eyes that sparkled like the traitorous moon. White laughter bubbled in her young stomach.

This was my very first memory.

I saw her round face and bright smile and that is the only thing I remember from that day. Her. But I swear to Merlin that I was there. The pictures cannot hide the truth after all. At least, not in this case.

They say my hair was that same creamy white for a week after she was born, that I told my grandmother about the "soft, white, tiny girl was an angel" and "I want to be an angel too". I do not know why I forgot that part.

The dress she wore for her fifth birthday was white. She was a gorgeous swan that day, and I just a careful observer. Watching as her laughs rang like bells and filled up the room, wiping away any trace of fear of sorrow or sadness from the faces of her friends and family. I was only seven, but I still knew how I felt. I was in love.

(To my knowledge, she only owned four white dresses. The third one I saw her wear was the one that I adored the most. It was also the one I accidentally tore the buttons off of the same night she wore it. I have never been a patient man.)

The sand on the beach when we rode around on broomsticks was white. I was always jealous that she was so close to the sea with its white foam and sea shells.

The snow that blanketed the ground of our school on the day we kissed was white. A small flake that landed on her lips was the reason why our mouths connected. I took it as a sign. I sometimes wonder if I still would have kissed her if there was not snow that day. I wonder if she knew that was why I made a move.

White were her teeth nipping at my neck, at times soft and loving, at others harsh and needy. White was her innocence that she gave to me to keep and protect forever. I think I always took that for granted. Always assumed that we had more time.

And white were the flowers on our wedding day, but the flowers that I placed on her grave were white too. What does that mean?

White was the hue of her lips when they lost all life. White were the blinding dots blocking out my vision when I found out and the clouds I could barely see in the sky as I wondered "Is she up there now? Watching me? Hating me for what I did?"

I guess I was right in the end, even if I do not recall saying it; Victoire was an angel.

The most beautiful angel I have ever seen.

But white was her smile and white was her hair and white is how I wear my own hair now. That silvery and creamy off-white that I love and miss so much.

White was the color of her youth, her adulthood, and her death. And that is perhaps the purest life I have ever come to know.


	2. Red

**a/n: **Here is the second installment of my tiny project! I thought for a moment there that I was only going to do a couple more chapters, but now I realize that is not possible. This idea will not be able to stop nagging me until I finish the rainbow. I promise this will have a (somewhat) happy ending. Even though half the ship is dead...

**disclaimer: **Victoire would like to remind you all that werewolves and wolves are two different things, and even though they are both deadly and terrifying you should not fear them. The can love, and even if that love hurts it is worth it. Also that I do not own these characters, stories, or the colors included.

Red is passion.

Her cheeks were red when I touched her. Every single time without fail, a blush would creep up her neck to her cheeks and sit there.

I could only assume the feeling bubbling up in her stomach was red like mine, because even after twenty one long and joyful years of knowing each other, and five perfect and new years of actually being together, that flush still remained. Rosy and warm and full of unending (yet ended) life.

The flowers I gave her on out first date were red - a sweet pale red that I bought because they reminded me of her. We went to see a concert that day. It had been two months since our first kiss and that night proved that it would not be out last. Her hips swaying to the beat of the songs, touching me and transforming me into a rainbow or pure joy. I tried to tell her this, but at the time I could not find the proper words, or the voice to speak up.

She told me she loved them, the flowers. Put them on her bedside table, watered them everyday. I was told that she even enchanted them to stay as fresh as the day she received them. But they still wilted.

Still died.

The curse of my father was red, though I do not blame him. It is not his fault that red can bleed into another. But it is my fault that I let another bleed into it.

So red were my eyes each month when the monster came back to visit. Red were my eyes each day when the monster took her beautiful smile away from me.

Red is the shame I constantly feel because I am the monster. The beast lives inside of me for every important moment of my life waiting for the - white - moon to show it's face before it comes out to play. But red is also the color of her favorite wine.

(The one we drank the night her dress was torn to shreds.)

Red is her nails raking through my hair late at night when the moon is out but not torturing me with it's song. Red were the words she whispered and the moans she would utter when we reached to blurry red point of bliss. I had never felt a love that red before her, and I doubt I will ever again.

Red is the blood pouring from her still (no longer red, but beautiful all the same) form when I woke up that fateful day, dazed and confused. The feel of her around me still evident. The taste of her red still in my mouth.

Even now it lingers there, past my lips, grasping at the last tangible part of her. It is possibly the sweetest and most bitter taste I have ever had.

I cannot eat when everything tastes like her. I cannot sleep when my bed is cold and the red it gone. I cannot speak when the last thing I said was red for her.

The moon is red to me now.


End file.
